Steven Isserlis: hell is underground

I received an email from Steven Isserlis a few days ago which I read with horror, gasping suspense, laughter, and rib-tickling delight … so I thought (with his gracious permission) I'd share it as a guest blogpost. Over to you, Mr. Isserlis!

My rehearsal [at Zankel Hall, New York] with Tom [Adès] went on too long – largely thanks to not being allowed on stage between 12 and 1 because of union rules. So I ended up having a rather foul, over-priced, but at least fairly quick lunch far too late, at around 3 – having just discovered that the concert was at 7.30, not 8 as I'd thought. Then I took the subway back to the apartment where I was staying down in Soho. Not too much problem – there's a direct line.

I got there around 4.15, knowing that I had to leave again by 6 to be on the safe side. I lay down for a much-needed sleep (having been awake with jet-lag since 6.30, after a late night). It was at this point that about fifty mechanical sheep (alias car-horns) started bleating. And it went on. And on. Providing a little variety, the bleating was drowned from time to time by deafening police-sirens. I still don't know what was happening – but there was obviously some accident or crime or nuclear detonation or somesuch, because by the time I emerged again from the apartment, bleary-eyed and deeply grumpy and without having managed to have any rest at all, the traffic was at a complete standstill; and still they were honking, honking, honking – as if that would do any good to anyone.

So I decided to take the subway again, and made my way to the station from which I'd come earlier. Easy – except that it was the wrong station. It turned out that the station for downtown trains and for uptown were in completely different places. Time was now ticking on – it was 6.15 or so – and I couldn't find the right entrance. Eventually I found an entrance that said 'uptown', so I ran down the steps – and discovered that I'd left my metrocard in my civilian trousers; I was now wearing my dress clothes. So I would have to buy a new one. OK – so I went to the machine. At this point I discovered that I had only a single dollar bill – and a single journey would cost $2. So I put in a $20 bill. That seemed to work – until a sign flashed up saying 'maximum change $6'. So I put in my Amex – and was asked to put in my zip code, which of course I don't have. I removed my Amex and put in my bank card. It asked for my PIN; I put it in, was told it had been debited, and heaved a sigh of relief – prematurely as it turned out, since a moment later came another message on the screen: 'Your transaction has been cancelled'.

Joy unbounded.

It was now 6.25 – and my breath was coming in short, fast gasps. There was no choice but to join the ticket queue – which was long, and mostly consisted of elderly Chinese ladies who had no knowledge of English, asked the ticket-seller how to get to incomprehensibly-named places, couldn't find their purses, and then laughed interminably as they searched. It was now 6.30, and I was swearing louder and louder. A rather troubled-looking woman behind me in the queue asked what was wrong. 'I have to play at Carnegie Hall in an hour,' I said. (Slight stretching of the truth – it was actually at Zankel; but this was no time for pedantry.) She looked sadly at me, and showed me her right hand, which was heavily bandaged. 'I'm a pianist,' she confided, 'but someone broke all my fingers.' I tried to look as sympathetic as I could at that point; well, it was awful – but I wondered what I was getting myself into. ' I knew you were a musician,' she went on. 'I need to talk to you.' I intimated that now wasn't the perfect moment for a relaxed chat. 'Give me your email address, then', she demanded. At this point the Chinese lady in front of me stopped describing the Great Wall of China to the ticket seller, brick by brick, and I was able to cut the conversation short and buy my ticket. 'I'll see you on the platform,' warned the woman as I tore off. Now 6.40.

I stood on the platform, but something seemed wrong; I didn't see the numbers of the trains that I'd taken earlier. I went up to the end of the platform, but there was no exit. So I went back up the platform – and there was the broken pianist. She looked at me sadly. 'You're on the wrong platform,' she announced gloomily. 'Where do I go?' I practically yelled at her (most unfairly – she was actually being very helpful). She pointed at a tunnel I'd stupidly missed. 'There's your train,' she said. 'But wait – I need to get in touch with you. I need encouragement from other musicians. What's your email address?' 'I've got to go,' I replied imploringly. She ignored my twitching hands and feet. 'Just give me your email address,' she insisted. 'You can go to my website if you like,' I spluttered."What's your name, then?' 'Steven Isserlis.' 'Now, how do you spell that?' she demanded to know. I screamed the spelling – 'Steven with a V!' – out for her as I started to run towards the tunnel – somehow I doubt whether she got it, though. I ran through the seemingly endless labyrinth, down flights of stairs, round sharp bends, pushing past normally-paced people, who looked at me without love. Finally, finally I arrived at the platform – and there was my train!

There was a hiss, and just as I ran up to them, the doors slid shut. Had I been there 30 seconds earlier, I would have been OK. The train stayed on the platform for another minute or so, just to torture me – and then with a slow, self-satisfied air, off it went. At this point, I lost my cool a bit. I started kicking the walls of the platform, swearing at the top of my voice and pounding on a large garbage can. This, however, failed to produce another train. It did, however, garner me a fair amount of attention – perhaps the more so because I was dressed in concert clothes, and wasn't just another drug addict freaking out. But the more I kicked the wall, and shouted every curse I could think of, and bit my hand, and peered longingly over the side of the platform at the rails,and shook my fist at the heavens, the less train there seemed to be. Eventually, eventually, after an unheard-of time for the New York subway (at least in my experience) one came. I boarded it, shaking and sobbing, and arrived at the hall shortly before the concert was due to begin, in a perfect state to play one of the most difficult programmes ever…

… and described in a glowing avalanche of adjectives by Anthony Tommasini in the New York Times review as "focused … haunting … refreshing … incisive … spiky … whirlwind energy … crunchy … incisive". If only he could have known what was going on in the cellist's mind just an hour before the curtain rose.